


Scarlet Shall Never Fade Away

by tiger_in_the_flightdeck



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anniversary, M/M, Nostalgia, POV First Person, POV John Watson, Retirement, Sherlock Holmes's Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 03:23:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10068962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_in_the_flightdeck/pseuds/tiger_in_the_flightdeck
Summary: On the anniversary of their first case together, Watson is feeling sentimental and nostalgic. Holmes manages not to mock him too much and earns a massage in return.





	

I know that Sherlock Holmes would call me a sentimental old fool, but every year when the winter storms eased off their attacks on my gardens and we had our first warm day of the year, I would go through my old notes and papers. My hands aren’t as nimble as they once were, but while I read over the years it always felt as if some of my past energy returned. 

In the best proof that Holmes knew what time of year it was, he had taken himself down to the village under the pretense of picking up jars for his next honey harvest. I knew the truth though, that he was avoiding the worst of my saccharine mood. 

The sun was still up when he returned, taking the path up to our little house slowly, avoiding wet patches on the ground in case they were still icy and slick. His steps were careful and gingerly, the chill wind reminding us that winter was just a hard gust away making his joints stiff. Nothing that a hot bath and a long massage wouldn’t help. 

“Oh, for the love of heaven, why are these still out?” he clucked his tongue as he found a clear space on the rug for his jars. Despite his sharp words he was careful not to step on any of my pages. 

I hooked my arm around his legs once he was close enough and pressed my cheek into his slim thigh. “Because I’m not finished with them. Do you remember this one?” I held up a yellowed sheet of paper. It had one of the earliest versions of an illustration of Holmes as I had first seen him. The artist hadn’t gotten the expression of joy on that young boy’s face, or the wildness in his eyes, but he had done an excellent job of capturing the smooth curve of his jaw and his beaky nose. 

“Of course I remember it. I had to sit for hours for portraits.” Holmes couldn’t get the irritated huff in his voice that I was used to. With a stifled groan when his knees cracked and popped, Holmes lowered himself to sit between my thighs. He plucked the page from my hand and smiled down at the drawing. “You did a better drawing yourself,” he smirked and set the page aside so he could lean forward and sort through others until he produced a delicate piece of paper. It was fragile, covered in notes and one corner was stained where I had spilled coffee on it. 

I am far better at creating portraits with words, but I had spent so much time gazing at Holmes during those first few months that even I was proud of how my sketch had turned out. Holmes was hunched over his microscope, his lips slightly parted and his long fingers just beginning to turn the knobs to adjust the view. His hair was tufted up over one ear and his dressing gown was slipping down off one shoulder. He looked rumpled and sleepy and just a little bit sly. 

“I don’t think that I would have been able to put that in The Strand.” I took the page and set it aside so I could frame it later. “You know what time of year it is?” I asked. 

Holmes didn’t look up from the papers he was pretending to shuffle together to put away. “You do this every year, my dear. It’s even worse than New Year.” He glanced up, his brows twitching together slightly. “Did you remember to send Stamford a card?” 

I chuckled and gave his hip a gentle swat. “See, you are just as bad as I am. You just like to act like you’re not.” His throat was at the perfect level for me to kiss the soft spot behind his ear, that spot I had discovered so long ago that made Holmes’ breath hitch and his skin flush warm and red. 

Dinner was Holmes’ favourite lamb dish, and he ‘surprised’ me with a tart from the bakery in the village, which we shared in front of the fire between kisses. It had been years since we had to worry about people bursting through our door to catch us together, so we could be lazy and slow with our kisses and touches. The gravel walk would warn us of footsteps approaching in case Stackhurst decided on one of his drop-in visits. 

We creaked and groaned as we climbed up off the floor for a bath. The hot water eased my aches, but I knew I would need to help Holmes’ along. I poured some sweet scented oil into my hands and smoothed it over Holmes’ narrow shoulders and up his long neck. 

His hair was still as thick and full as it always was, but was more white than black now. His muscles were still wiry and strong, but his joints were swollen and knobbly with arthritis. It was a nightly ritual to carefully massage away his aches and pains before bed, especially on damp days. I stretched his long limbs, sliding my oiled hands over his muscles in slow circles. 

It was hard to tell which moans were sensual, and which were relief at having a particularly tight knot worked away. Generally, if I heard something pop first, I tried not to let the long breathy groan go straight to my groin. 

Holmes squirmed where he sat, sloshing water between us until his slender rump was pressed against me. My massage became gentler, little more than caresses of my fingers over his back. I traced the pale pink blossom that was tattooed between his shoulders, a relic from his time in the East. It was just one in a collection, his studies of tattoo techniques leaving him looking like a fierce painted Celt. Holmes had coaxed me along to join him on more than one occasion, and I’d followed him into tidy little parlours to have his flourished initials permanently inked onto my hip. The matronly artist had discreetly rolled her eyes while she did the work and Holmes had tried to urge me to get something pierced. I held my ground and we left with a bandage over my hip and a small gold hoop through Holmes’ navel. 

The hoop now sat in a dish on the bureau, along with the rest of his magpie collection of sparkling jewellery. The only piece he wore everyday was the plain gold band I gave him years ago, a match to my own.

While murmuring against Holmes’ ear, I slipped my hand between his thighs. He lifted his hips into my palm before settling back down, making it clear that he was too comfortable to do much moving. Instead, I sank lower into the tub, taking him with me so he was sprawled across my chest with his knees apart. 

Just as our kisses had been, my touches were lazy, sometimes stopping entirely while I focused on kissing Holmes on his neck and shoulders. It had been years since our bodies would snap to attention at the slightest contact. With each pass I made over his gradually forming erection, I nibbled and breathed over the shell of Holmes’ ear. 

Eventually he began to rock his hips up in small, stuttering thrusts, then back to grind on my staff. I used a few drops more of the oil to keep my hand slick and stroked him firmly from base to tip. With my free hand, I carded through his hair, grazing my nails along his scalp. 

Holmes clutched at the sides of the tub and I could just see his teeth dimpling his bottom lip. His breath came hard and rough until he pulsed semen over my fingers and into the water. He pulled himself upright, tipping his arse back so I could rut between the cheeks. 

I held his hips, using my thumbs to press the mounds of muscle together to give me more contact and friction. Instead of splashing over his back, I caught my mess in my hand, although much of it still spilled over my belly and into my nest of hair. 

Rubbing my cheek against the back of Holmes’ neck, I rinsed off my hand before cupping water to wash him clean. 

“Did you ever think it would come to this?” he asked quietly. Holmes took my hands and held them in the water after he leaned back against my chest. 

“Absolutely, my darling.” With a grin, I pressed a kiss to the side of Holmes’ head and tightened my arms around him, squeezing his thighs with my knees. “Didn’t you?” My voice was light and teasing. 

It had been more than three decades, but Holmes still seemed to be surprised at all of this. Letting go of my hands, he trailed his fingertips over my thighs, the soapy water swirling around his wrists. “When we first met, I thought we had a connection. I knew that we would fit together well to share 221B, but I had no idea it would turn out like this. I couldn’t imagine anyone would tolerate me this long.” 

With my hands now free, I slid them into Holmes’ hair so I could guide his head back to my good shoulder. I closed my eyes and hummed a soft tune to him from the last opera we had gone into London to see. “You caught my eye from the moment I first saw you. You intrigued me and thrilled me, and you still do today. I love you, Sherlock Holmes.” 

I felt rather than heard him sigh, his body relaxing into me, and Holmes reached up to cover my hand with his own. “Thank you for staying with me.” 

More than thirty years ago, Holmes had invited me into his world and given me a purpose. A connection had been cemented that day in early March, and the scarlet thread that had run through the criminal underground had bound me to him for the rest of our lives. There would be no more cases, but I will always have my dispatch box filled with tales of our exploits. When I feel the years weighing on me I can simply open them and be transported to a cosy little room in front of a crackling fire, with the sounds of hoofbeats coming in through the window rather than the pound of surf. There will be yellow fog filled streets rather than sweet heather and the drone of bees. The ring at the bell would be a desperate client, a worried wife, a panicked police inspector, instead of a neighbour dropping round for a cup of tea and a hand of cards. 

Sherlock Holmes would call me a sentimental old fool, and he would be right. 

“Thank you for taking me on adventures.”


End file.
